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He accepted condolences and words of sorrow. He listened to a recounting of Seamus’s last days from Mrs. Needles. Apparently, he made the right noises because neither the priest nor the housekeeper looked appalled.
What could his godfather want now?
He wanted to be anywhere but Kilkee.
* * *
“I DON’T WANT IT.” Liam leaned forward in his chair and set his bitter coffee on Ian’s desk. “I don’t want anything from my godfather.”
“But Seamus loved the house.” Mr. Lachlan’s chair squeaked as he leaned forward. “The will stipulates the manor passes to you.”
“My life is no longer here in Clare. I’ve a flat in Galway.” He hadn’t set foot in Kilkee for almost five years.
“But the house was built in 1785. It’s a treasure.”
“The house is drafty and dismal. Unless Seamus loosened his pocketbook, it needs repairs that will cost more than I’ll earn in the next ten years. Sell the bloody place.”
“Oh, no.” Ian’s thumb tapped the papers on the desk. “Why don’t you wait to make that decision? Recover from your grief.”
Liam wasn’t grieving. The only grief remaining was the lingering wisps of sorrow for his parents.
“Mrs. Needles has committed to stay through year end. My office handles Seamus’s financial affairs. We could continue that plan,” Ian added. “And there’s some money that goes along with the manor house.”
“I’ll wait a while.” He didn’t want to deal with decisions on the manor. “But I doubt I’ll change my mind. Keep up his arrangements.”
He could sell the mausoleum next year. Seamus couldn’t have left him enough money to keep him here. There wasn’t enough money in all of Kilkee to tie him to his childhood nightmares. “The only thing I’d like is my godfather’s cameras.”
As a child he’d never been allowed to touch the Hasselblad or Rolleiflex.
Ian shifted in his seat. “About the cameras.”
Liam’s shoulders sank. Were they gone? Had Seamus been that spiteful? “What did he do?”
“It’s not what Seamus did.” Ian rocked forward, and the chair let out a long screech that clawed up Liam’s spine. “He wants you to do something.”
“What?” Liam spit the word out.
“A few years ago, your godfather started working on his family tree.” Ian leaned back and the darn chair squealed again. “I helped him with the software and some research. He traced a branch of the FitzGerald family to Savannah.”
“Savannah?” Where was that?
“Savannah. It’s in Georgia,” Ian said. “The family runs a B and B there.”
“Georgia? By the Black Sea?”
“No. America.”
America? “Did Seamus leave the cameras to these relatives?”
“No. No.” The chair squeaked again.
Liam was bringing an oil can if he met with Ian again.
“He had letters he wanted to give to his American relatives, the Fitzgeralds,” Ian said.
“American relations?” Ian wasn’t making any sense. He’d never heard of any relatives.
“Seamus found letters from his great-great-great-uncle James in America to James’s brother, Michael, who stayed in Ireland. James was the second son and decided to make his fortune somewhere other than at the Irish quarries. Michael stayed here.”
Liam’s head reeled from all the relationships. “I need a road map.”
Ian pulled out a family tree and spread it on the table.
“James moved to America before the famine, around 1830. His brother, Michael, stayed in Clare.”
“Why was Seamus so interested in these... Americans?” He took a sip of his now-cold coffee.
“It seems James did well for himself, first with shipping, then banking and real estate. The family was able to hang on and prosper after their civil war.”
Liam waited. “And?”
“Seamus talked about visiting the family. Showing them the letters, but his doctor said no.”
“My godfather wanted to meet them? He hated people.” Liam couldn’t believe Seamus would pursue something this crazy. “Did he lose his marbles in the last few years?”
Ian shook his head. “He was of sound mind.”
Liam paced to the window and stared at the pub across the street. A pint might help him swallow this strange tale.
“His faculties weren’t impaired.” Ian was being kind.
Liam bet the solicitor had felt the sting of Seamus’s tongue more than once in their working relationship. “This doesn’t affect me. I’m not related.”
Ian frowned. “Seamus wants you to take James’s letters from America back to his relatives.”
“Why bother?”
“Because it was a dying man’s wish.” Ian handed him a file. “I’ve copied the pertinent facts for you and included the material Seamus put together on the family.
“The will is specific.” Ian took a deep breath. “If you don’t take the letters to the Savannah Fitzgeralds, you don’t get the cameras.”
“You’re kidding.” This was Seamus’s final payback for Liam refusing to run the quarries. The bastard knew all Liam wanted was the cameras. “Can’t you just mail the letters?”
“They have to be delivered. By you.”
Liam swore. “And if I refuse?”
Ian held up his hands. “I can’t authorize Mrs. Needles to release the cameras.”
Liam pushed away from the desk, pacing the small office. Bugger Seamus. He didn’t need more cameras. He had plenty.
But the cameras were his childhood’s forbidden fruit. The golden apple just out of reach.
“When do I have to bring these letters to my uncle’s relatives?”
Ian smiled. “You have six months.”
Six months. He crossed the pond a couple times a year to meet with his producers in New York. Maybe Savannah was close enough to swing over for a day.
Ian pushed the file across his desk. “Take a look at the information. I certainly wouldn’t mind visiting the family.”
Liam flipped open the file. In front was a printout of an article with the title Fitzgerald Family Expands B and B to Include Carleton House. Four smiling women stood, arm in arm.
Family. He swallowed back his longing. “This is the only way?”
Ian nodded. “Yes.”
He looked at the Fitzgeralds. “Bollocks. I’ll do it.”
“Good.” Ian pushed a piece of paper toward Liam. “We’ll make it nice and tidy. Then Mrs. Needles can release the cameras and anything else you want.”
“I just want his cameras.” Liam dashed his signature on the line.
He didn’t want to stay in Kilkee any longer than required. “I’ll go up there now.”
“I’ll notify Mrs. Needles.” Ian loaded Liam down with a box of papers and folders. “The Fitzgeralds’ copies are in this envelope. I’ve had copies made for you, too. There’s also a copy of Seamus’s will.”
Ian held the door and walked Liam to his car. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Sure.” Not if he could help it. He wanted to be free of this place. And he definitely didn’t want to head to the manor. But he turned the car up the cliff road.
The house overlooking Kilkee Bay hadn’t changed. The blue-gray stone manor had dark, tiny inset windows framed with tan limestone. The faded red door wasn’t inviting. The roof was a sorrowful gray slate. Seamus had boasted all the stone had come from FitzGerald quarries.
Liam’s chest tightened as he parked in the drive. The loneliness of his childhood weighed down his shoulders.
The house could have been quaint or even elegant. It was neither. It was his worst horror. A place where he’d grieved his parents and no one had cared.
The flagstone drive, also from the quarries, muffled the strike of his shoes. He stopped in the courtyard, glaring at the house.
The door pulled open with a dull pop.
“Come in, come in.” Mrs. Needles waved him inside. “I’m sorry for your loss, Master Liam.”
“It’s just Liam.” No one had called him Master Liam since boarding school. “Thank you for your sympathy, but you worked for my godfather. You know we weren’t close.”
“Oh, how proud he was whenever one of your books came out.” She eased off his leather jacket and hung it on the tree before he could protest. “Mr. FitzGerald bragged on how he’d taught you everything you knew about photography.”
“He followed my career?” Liam blurted out.
“Oh, he did. Loved to boast about you down at the pub.” She patted his arm. “He wasn’t as keen on the documentaries, but he watched them all the same.”
This didn’t make any sense. When he hadn’t stayed in Kilkee, he and Seamus rarely talked.
“Seamus did love photography,” Liam said. The only thing he’d loved. And his godfather had made him slave long hours in the darkroom.
“He was proud of you. Come on back to the kitchen.” She tugged on his elbow. “I’ve just brewed a pot of tea.”
“I hadn’t planned on staying. I’m only here for the cameras.”
She ignored his reluctance, leading him down the dim, narrow hall. The lemon polish on the shining wood didn’t mask the musty smell of the old house.
“I’ve everything packed in a box and a few of your school things Mr. FitzGerald saved.” Her eyes twinkled. “You must have been a terror in school. There’s a number of notes from headmasters.”
She pushed open the kitchen door. Bright yellow curtains graced the windows.
“I can’t believe Seamus sprang for something new in this mausoleum,” he spat out.
She winked. “My mince pies got me those curtains.”
A peat fire burned on the grate, the pungent scent warming the room. Mrs. Needles poured two mugs as he settled in a chair in front of the hearth. Then she piled a plate with raspberry tarts and shortbread cookies.
This wasn’t the house he remembered. For once he felt...welcomed.
He took a bite of a crisp cookie. Buttery sugar melted in his mouth. Then he popped a tart in his mouth, the crust flaky and the jam sweet. “These are tops. If you’d been housekeeper when I was a child, I don’t think I’d have gotten in so much trouble at school.”
“If I’d been housekeeper, you would have behaved. I raised three boys from lads to men. I’m a grandmother three times.”
He let her ramble on about her children and sipped his strong black tea, feeling strangely at ease in a house he hated.
She walked into the breakfast room and came back with a box. “Are you sure you don’t want to look around the place? Identify things you’d like packed up? Maybe stay the night?”
“Thanks, no. I’m at the inn.” But for once, he was tempted to linger.
She pointed at the empty plate. “How about another cup of tea and a few more biscuits?”
“I’d like that.”
* * *
“ONCE MORE WITH FEELING,” Dolley called, reducing the f-stop on her camera.
Damian, the bar owner, rolled his eyes, but picked up a martini glass and pretended to hand the bright blue drink to Dolley’s coworker, Anne. On the dark wood bar sat two more cocktails, one electric pink and the other neon green.
Dolley made sure Anne, Damian, the drinks and the wall of gleaming bottles behind the bar were in focus. She snapped away. “Smile.”
Anne’s and Damian’s smiles were forced.
“Come on, think of something fun,” she suggested. “Like vacations or...sex.”
